Friends in Low Places
by Sphookers
Summary: MATURE: Rory Williams; is too tired for this. He just wants to stay in his cell and waste away. When a suspicious government official named Galloway visits him in solitary, could a change of pace be what he needs? Or, will this end in blood, and betrayal? Sunstreaker x Oc x Sideswipe.


A/N - Please do read, and review if you find time to do so. Constructive criticism shall always be welcome, flaming shall be met with my laughter at your ignorance.

As a note, in this Universe, most Transformers retain a mixture of their G1 and Movie appearances, as I find their...Shapes, to be slightly insulting at times, in the Movies alone. Also, this fiction takes place after the first film, and before the second.

Disclaimer; I, of course, own nothing more than the characters I have built.

If I did own transformers, I would not be stressing of tuiton.

.

As an addition, Many thanks the skilled Beta, 'JoinMyInsanity'. She is a keystone to this story, as this is my first attempt at writing and she has assisted me in learning about how to translate my thoughts to a readable work. For which, I am very grateful. :)

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Chapter 1 – Nicotine

The four walls glistened. White was such a bore. Like an egg gone sour, shell bleached cotton but inside rotted through. He shifted restlessly, scowling at the itchy cuffs restraining his wrists behind his back. At least, he was the rot inside the white shell this time. He _stunk _like it. But he'd smelled of worse things. A weathered sigh cut short with a muffled hiss as pulling at his cuffs chaffed torn knuckles and smeared rust red on the concrete. Blinking against the boring white, another breath caught deep in his throat in a hum. Solitary confinement was never a party, no matter how often you tried to liven it up. Hours passed at a crawl in that small room, and he found himself wanting a clock to shove up the ass of the oversized prick that'd thrown him in here to suffocate in his own sweat.

"Fucking Hell, I need a smoke," he muttered, yanking again on his cuffed wrists. A white-hot poker of pain stabbed deep in his joint at the motion, smearing more wet red on his skin and the dirty floor. He'd pick the cuffs if they hadn't've stolen his lock picks. It felt like a lifetime since he held the rusted metal sticks that were his personal keys to everyone else's business. Though in his defence he wasn't no thief anymore, just a run'o'the mill asshole.

Hours turned to days like cold molasses. That guard was all hat and no cattle, and he was almost sure he'd been in lockup for longer than proper. He knew the policy like he knew his own crooked nose. He had been in solitary enough times that he could personally recite it. It was a three day stay in the one-man-band room for infighting. But he had been in the white washed room for what could be four or five days. Honest. Either the guard screwed him, or was busy as a one-legged man at an ass kicking contest.

The lack of clock was icing on a horse shit pie, far as he was concerned. Though, he was not really surprised at being left on his ass in solitary. He'd earned it. A chuckle huffed out of his slightly swollen lips. Saying he'd fucked the man's wife was not his smartest moment but it had done the job, and gotten the guard madder than a wet hen.

Tonguing his split lip, he tasted bitter iron and sucked the wound. The sting was a thread of something in this sea of boredom. If only he had a roommate, he'd be ready and rarin' to go. But that would 'defeat the purpose of solitary'.

Pish posh. Whatever. Hell, he needed a _Goddamned cigarette_. The tense muscles in his arms jumped and twitched in his annoyance. Could Tobacco be sucked out of prison clothes? Maybe if he had water. Cigarette water soaked in four day old sweat and other… unmentionables did not sound like a fun thing to do, but desperate measures and all that. He shook his head, sputtering to fling away long hairs that had gotten wedged in his teeth. Kill a man for a hair tie and call it a good day.

Rory, his name was Rory, was pulled from his thoughts by the jangle of keys in the lock of his cell. Freedom! And smokes, but even Rory had self-respect. A familiar buzz sounded as the door unlocked, and two guards entered the too small room, picking Rory up under the pit of his arms and carelessly hauling him upright. Black swam across his vision at the sudden change in position and he blinked it away. The movement pulled at the cuffs behind his back and for a moment Rory felt his elbows might pop out of their sockets at the pressure. He gave a grimace at the sharp ache.

"Well 'ello loves, did I interrupt your manicures?" he snarked, hiding his wince with a hoarse laugh when the guard jostled him against the doorframe. "Ay now, careful with that. I'm delicate goods. Wouldn't wanna answer to my Pimp, now would ye?"

Looking to his right, he recognized the scowling beef-cake as the guard he'd run his mouth at. The one that'd left him to sit and sweat. Sneering, he hacked sharply and spit on the guard's feet, unused muscles twinging as he jerked him forward. So worth the thrashing he'd get.

Rory bared his teeth in a feral grin that ended in a retch as the guard socked him solidly in the gut.

"Just sling th' sorry shit over yer shoulder," the guard barked, shoving him toward the larger guard on his right. Don't they employ regular size people in this joint? Rory gave a squawk as the guard did as asked and slung him roughly across his back. Rory cursed and struggled, a task made difficult by the shoulder now in his sore gut and the cuffs that had yet to be removed. The breath huffed out of him and he bit his tongue to keep from spewing down the guard's back. Though he should just aim and fire, he mused. But he'd rather not smell like puke among other things_. Fuck this asshole_. This was just embarrassing. He was not some goddamn pansy ass kid bout to get it on the chin, or a sack of potatoes to be lashed around!

Rory gave a snarl and prepared to give the guards a piece of his mind when he was haphazardly tossed into a hard chair, the flimsy plastic overbalancing at the sudden weight and tipping, leaving Rory to flounder before his split lip and chin met the floor with a sharp _smack_. Rory wheezed at the angle his head had been forced into, struggling to right himself with both hands cuffed behind his back. The guards hauled Rory up with a snicker, righting the chair and slinging him into it a second time, though with less force. Both guards had left his line of sight with the _snicht _of the door, now locked.

Rory blinked against the harsh spotlight that burned shapes into his retina and examined this new room. Squinting, his head pounded sharply from the sudden fall. He hated these lights. It reminded him too much of the harsh—

_ ...desert sun, beating down on his face, lips peeling and cracked. His feet burned in the thick sand, like fucking lava in his boots. Each step taking so much more effort than he thought possible. Water, just water ahead, a lake? He stumbled forward to find the liquid life jumped away from his reach. Desperation crawled through the hot blood in his veins. Too hot, he was so dry he could spit straight cotton. Another mirage, how many could there be?! Fuck this wastela—_

Rory cut himself off from that line of thought. No need to go chasing demons without moonshine to burn 'em away. In front of him was a desk, and his left was a dark mirror, His reflection glared at him, usually peach face a ruddy color of dirt. One-way mirror, he thought. Opposite to him was another chair, much like the one he had been dumped into.

His throat was just so dry. It stung like he'd eaten wet sand. He coughed, and was rewarded with a heave from his bruised gut. Rory snapped to attention, hunched over at the middle as the wall on his left swung inward to reveal a door. A short, thin man in a blue suit with a receding hairline strode in, confidently pulling the second chair towards him and dropping a thick file on the table between them as he sat.

Rory snorted, eyeing the file. He could guess what was inside; the yellowed paper had his name on it. Godawful name that it was.

"So, ye come here often?" The lilt of his Texan home lent a softness to his words that wasn't mirrored by his stony eyes. The other man raised an eyebrow at the obvious jibe, but remained quiet.

"Roarke Williams, age 27. It says here that you were a Marine. I find it interesting that an ex-con like you made your way into military ranks. After all, once a gang runner, always a gang runner, right?" the man snipped.

This man must eat, sleep and shit deskwork if he knew of Rory's days of running under gang banners. "Well, whaddya know. A paper boy with a kernel of common sense. Ye know, I'd appreciate the Hell outta havin' a smoke 'bout now"

"It's Director Galloway, to you." The other man looked down his nose at Rory. He flung his hand towards the dark pane of glass and immediately a young man came out, glancing at Rory's torn up face and holding a cigarette to his mouth. His hands shook, making difficult work of lighting the white stick.

"Fine then, Mr. Galloway. What can I do ye for?" Rory snagged the cigarette with his teeth, taking a much-needed drag of his smoke before the kid took it from his mouth, holding it a few inches from Rory, who was watching carefully. If that kid tried to nick his cigarette, he would leap down his damn throat for it.

"It's not what you can do for me, it's what I can do for you. I can ensure you receive an opportunity for probation, with a few conditions, of course. Now, it says here you were a lance Corporal before you bit the hand that made you from nothing. How would you like to be of use to your country again? Instead of being a drain on the economy, that is."

Rory grinned, swollen lip tugging his lips into more of a grimace. "Much as you'd like to get fucked, I's'ppose." He snorted. "Ye ain't gonna get much from me if ye think I love this fuckin' country. Full o' dogs bittin' each other for stupid reasons, I say. And, is'not like I'm eligible for Parole." He looked to the side, unwilling to meet the eyes of the director. Anger curdled his blood. The world was full of dogs, screwing each other from land to sea and loving every minute of it and he knew that better than the small man sitting across from him.

"You will be an exception to this rule. I am National security advisor to the President. My judgement on this is impeccable, and you will be released under my supervision." The thin man preened at his own title.

Rory stood, turning until his back faced the director. He looked over his shoulder at the other man and shrugged, pulling at the cuffs that held his arms behind him.

"Ye mind? Hard'te have a decent run 'round with ye, what with these puppies on me"

The balding man's face looked older, wrinkled in his annoyance, but he swatted his assistant in the gut, pointing at Rory. The kid fumbled with keys as he unlocked the cuffs with his free hand, the other holding Rory's lit treasure. Rory sighed in relief and stretched slowly. His bones creaked and he groaned deep, shaking tingles out of his limbs. He pulled the chair around so the back was between his legs, sitting comfortably and tracing fingertips around his deeply purpled knuckles and red swollen tears at his wrists, dislodging reddish brown flakes at the soft touch. He frowned at the sting. He would have to dress these up like a fine lady before he got something nasty from it.

He plucked the cigarette from the nameless lackey's hands and puffed, eyes closing at the bitter tang. With a savage grin, Rory leaned in close, and exhaled smoke into the other man's face.

"So, Mr. Director, what would ye have little 'ole me, do ye for?" The director flinched away from the grey fog as though burned, face wrinkling in disgust. He reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled a small white patch of fabric, covering his nose.

Prissy, Rory thought. This Director man made one awful mistake if he thought Rory wouldn't exploit that.

"I am in need of your surveillance skills, and you are useful. Tactless as you are, the assignment is simple. I'm sure you, with your limited intellect can handle the task." Director Galloway looked down to the file, ignoring Rory's choke of anger at the insult. "This is a confidential assignment. You will have to sign a contract of nondisclosure and agree to my terms and condit- Get out of my face!" Galloway shrieked and reared like a startled horse, as Rory had taken the Director's lack of attention to lean forward and flick his tongue against the other man's cheek.

With a smug grin, Rory leaned back, crossing his arms over the back of the chair and resting his chin there. His head felt so heavy after hours of lying awkwardly on the floor. "Yes, yes I will sign yer papers. Love to chitter with'ye but no rest for the wicked and all. What's my assignment, an' why should I go along with it?" Galloway scowled like he'd bitten a lemon and wiped his red, splotchy face.

"You will infiltrate a government organization of high priority, and pose as a mechanic. You have use in the trade, from what I have regrettably had to read of your file. What you see and hear, you will report to me. You will inform no one of the organization and you will keep your big mouth shut about this little meeting. As payment for your… services, I will open the case on that corporal you blame for your stint in prison. Which is more than you deserve."

The smug grin fled Rory's face, quickly replaced with a spectrum of emotions. Desolation, and burning, absolute rage flitted through his eyes before he composed himself, shock burning holes in his heart.

Use in the trade? Rory was brilliant when you put a tool in his hands. There was nothing he couldn't do. He might not be as sprucy as he used to be, but Rory'd be Damned if he couldn't strip and rebuild an engine with his eyes closed. He'd been working on his Pa's trucks since he was knee high to a grasshopper. At the tender age of 4, he learned how to crawl into the small spaces of an engine to pull it apart, and how to put it back together with the broke wrist his mischief had earned him. To say he knew his way around machines was a far cry short of his actual knowledge. All of it earned through sweat and blood.

"A secret club? Well fuck, a high rising desk jockey ye are. Fine, as ye wish, my new boss. But it's going to cost ye. I will hear your damn terms and conditions, but I do have a few of my own. Got my own self-respect, see. Mum'd be proud."

Rory ended in a mumble, more to himself than the man sitting across from him. He swallowed his rage. He could put his hands through this man's throat later. The Director squirmed under Rory's boiling stare. He'd certainly gotten Rory's attention with that little suggestion.

"You said I'd be working as a mechanic, so I need my own shop and such. Can't be makin' shit from nothing, after all." Galloway sighed in annoyance.

"Yes, that is expected to be provided for you. Though, you will have to cover the cost of your expenditures beyond what is required for work. You will be listed as a reserve Marine in your file, to avoid suspicion. Room and board are given to you."

Rory smirked. This paper boy was desperate. He knew his worth, and if he was here taking this risk, he'd run fresh out of options. Rory was known to the public, and recognizable. He'd caused something of an uproar, four years past. Rory ran a hand through long dark locks, eyes like chipped stone, though he grinned. The grimace that flitted through the Director's face belied the truth of Rory's thoughts.

"Also, I can come back to this comfy jail any time, no questions asked."

"Agreed. What else?"

Rory blinked back surprise. He had been expecting some push back. They must be really fucking desperate for this inside job. He supposed this was in his favour. Not gonna look this gift horse in the mouth.

"Jus' one more thing." Rory wanted to push the envelope to see how far the Director would go. His fingers ached for another good brawl. He might be sore but he was no downed bird.

Director Galloway rubbed at his eyes in mounting frustration. "What else could you possibly want?"

With a snort, Rory leaned forward until he was inches away.

"A hot shower, with all them lotions for hair and shit." Rory accentuated his words with a tug at his long, greasy hair.

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Two hours later at a dead-end motel, hot, stinging droplets of water beat down on Rory's back, coating his marked skin, and dipping into the curves of his form. Prison had done nothing for his body fat, leaving him of sharp lines and hard skin. Tugging at his hair the wet ends trailed by his hips as he shook some of the, now dirty, water out of it. He couldn't remember the last hot shower he had. Even before jail, he had too much to lose to spend precious dollars on hot water for something as mundane as showers for himself. Giving a soft groan, he tilted his head upwards, mouth open to catch the bitterly hot water. When had he last felt this pure joy?

He remembered now: it was back in that shitty apartment above the strip club, his first real home, pulled together with his own two hands.

That first night when everything had been moved in. He had just finished fixing the shithole, when he—

_ ...stood under the heat for over an hour, much longer than his budget for hot water would love'im for, holding his breath beneath the spray. He would deal with the whole world later. The soft padding of feet approached, but Rory knew those footsteps that were nearly silent, like a cat on carpet, with only the slightest scuff of skin on the squeaky floor. He knew them better than his own. A muffled grunt announced the presence of his most precious love. He sighed, and turned to meet the newcomer to his shower; The half to his half._

_ Soft hands with long fingers pulled at Rory's short, thin hair before tracing a cold-fingered line down his front. Well-kept finger nails catching on the puckered line that split his ribs, leaving a trail of connection between them. Such an oasis they had together. Like two whirlybirds from the gnarled old maple they had found in the forest in younger years, they twirled together in a breeze, always spinning together, limbs bumping each other with the sweetness of cream._

_Dropping his head to land solidly together with that of his other, Rory grabbed at the small collection of bottles and ignored the dull pain at their connecting heads, ears reddening at his own weakness. The other laughed, and carefully pulled another bottle out of the holder._

_Soft lips on his forehead bled away his anxiety with sweet care.._

_Rory frowned, playfulness crawling through him as he snatched the bottle of shampoo from his hand and squirting it into the other's hair. The other protested, but Rory insisted._

"_Let me take care'a you, sweetheart." He rumbled to his other, smooth as honey and peaches. The other hummed and let Rory's hands slip through hip-length hair. His other has always loved long hair, even if it was peculiar in in the hot state of Texas. His other was peculiar, but so was Rory. They were a puzzle of broken pottery that fit just so. Even if it meant some harsh words, they were fine as they were. That was what Rory was for, after all. To chase away the cruel and undeserving—_

Rory was pulled again from his sweet thoughts by a sharp banging on the door. Rude, he thought. He'd earned this shower, what with all that paperwork, signing away his life. He pulled again at his long, wet hair, missing for a moment when it was short enough to feel the breeze on his scalp. He had grown his own hair out after that day in the hot sand. He couldn't stand it being short anymore.

Pulling himself away from such thoughts with a thick swallow, Rory clutched at the warped skin on the left side of his chest, fingers skating around the puckered scar tissue, marked with splotches of overlapping scars from stitches that had long since healed.

It hurt, how much he needed his other.

He slammed a flat palm on the dial of the shower, abruptly ending the flow of warm water. He stepped out into the steamed bathroom with slumped shoulders, roughly scrubbing water from his face and prepared to face life outside of prison, a possibility he had never thought he would have for the rest of his days.

After all, the world doesn't forget convicted charges of second-degree murder.

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Hmm, shall we know details? We shall see...

Please, do rate and review at your leisure.

Thank you for your interest!


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